


You'll Be Alright (You Make Me Alright)

by fanatic_by_definition



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Pre-Slash, Singing, neither is pete, the kids aren't alright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2782211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanatic_by_definition/pseuds/fanatic_by_definition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Am I your best friend?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Be Alright (You Make Me Alright)

**Author's Note:**

> product of my own insomnia. written on my phone, so apologies for any typos. hope you like :)

It doesn't happen as often as it used to. Sometimes Patrick would hear his phone ringing two, three times a night, almost every night when they weren't on tour. If it was past 2 a.m., he would know immediately who it was and answer with a raspy, sleep-laden "Hey, Pete."

After ten seconds without any response besides shuddering breaths, he'd start singing, no prompting needed. He'd hum the tunes of some of his favorite songs into the receiver for as long as it took Pete's breathing to even out--sometimes this meant minutes, sometimes hours. But Patrick didn't mind. That was just how this...thing, this arrangement, worked.

That was, of course, back when insomnia would regularly, relentlessly keep Pete's eyes propped open with invisible toothpicks. Ever since the hiatus--since Bronx turned three, really--it hasn't been that big of an issue. The calls have gone from almost every night, to a couple times a week, to once a month, to less than three times a year.

While he'll never admit it, Patrick does kinda miss those late-night one-sided conversations, when his voice had been the one and only thing that could silence the cruel voices in Pete's head. But Pete's healthy now, unmedicated even, and for him that's practically a miracle--in fact, the last time Pete had called asking for a song had been nearly ten months ago. That's such a milestone that Patrick nearly feels the impulse to get a cake or something just to celebrate it.

Tonight, he's at a hotel alone in downtown Chicago after singing the national anthem at Soldier Field. Talk about an adrenaline rush--singing the most recognizable song in the world in front of countless millions of people, both at the field and at home, had been the most intimidating thing he's ever done. He wishes his friends could be there with him, but they've got stuff going on in other parts of the city while they've got these few days off before the Jingle Ball on the 18th. He can deal with a night or two on his own.

He's startled awake around 1:30 when his cell phone nearly buzzes off the nightstand. Blearily, he rolls over to pick it up and tries to read the caller ID, but the screen is too bright in the pitch dark of the room for his eyes to focus on it. Instead he blindly taps the answer button and mumbles, "Hullo?"

A few seconds of silence. Then, "'Trick?"

Patrick starts a little at the sound of the familiar tired voice. He props himself up on his elbows, blinking. "Pete?"

"Yeah." He sounds exhausted, like it's an effort just to move his mouth to speak.

"Why aren't you asleep, you idiot?" Patrick asks fondly, growing concerned.

"Can't," comes the staticky reply. "Head's too loud. Needed to hear your voice. Watching you on TV wasn't enough."

Patrick's face heats up bashfully at the thought of Pete watching him sing at the football game, even though Pete watches him sing every chance he gets. After clearing his throat quietly, he asks, "D'you want me to--"

"Am I your best friend?"

The interruption--as well as the subject change--is abrupt and unexpected. "What?"

"It's just...in the new song, y'know, the lyric 'I think you're my best friend'..." Pete is speaking so softly that Patrick has to press his phone to his ear to hear him. "I mean, I-I know I wrote it, and we all liked it, and it was just a lyric, but...listening to it today, man, hearing your voice say it right in my ears, I just got scared."

Patrick thinks he knows where this is going, but he asks anyway. "Scared of what?"

There's a long pause here; if it weren't for the quiet buffeting of Pete's breaths in the speaker, Patrick would've thought he hung up. When the bassist finally does speak, it's in a louder voice, more clearly relaying his desperation. "Am I...still your best friend, 'Trick?"

 _Oh, Pete_. Patrick's about to answer when Pete continues at a more rambling pace: "'Cuz, y'know, I know you've got 'Lisa and your own small human now, and we've changed a whole fuckin' lot over just the past five years as a band and as people, and, like, you've got all this awesome self-confidence now that you didn't used to have, so you don't really need my shitty egotistical frontman act to protect you anymore, even though I...even with Meagan, I still sorta...need you. Probably more than you need me at this point, 'cuz you've got everything your ever wanted and I'm still the semi-emo bass player who writes lyrics you don't even really need, so I totally understand if you don't see me as, like, your other half anymore, b-but I wanted to, um--"

"Pete." Patrick cuts his friend off before his own heart breaks even further in two. He pinches the bridge of his nose and collapses back against his pillow like Pete's words have pushed him. These thoughts the other man is spewing sound dangerously 2006. "Where the fuck is this coming from?"

"I don't know, I don't know, I just...dammit!" Pete sounds like he's pulling his own hair out of frustration. He probably is--Patrick can picture it. "It's just, it's bugging me and keeping me awake and I had to call you. I had to ask, even though I know what you'll say. I'm dumb. You know that."

Typical Wentzian self-deprecation. Patrick sighs deeply. "What I know is you're fucking ridiculous. And that you're absolutely, most certainly, my best friend on the face of this planet."

"Yeah?" The uncertainty in Pete's tone is gut-wrenching. It needs to disappear. Now. Immediately. Never to return.

Patrick pushes himself into a sitting position and prays that Pete picks up on the earnestness behind these words. "Yes, Pete. You'll always be my best friend. Always. No matter what kind of music we're making, or what our lives turn into, or who comes or goes. Nothing could ever take the place of you in my band, my life, or my heart." It's sappy as fuck and totally not punk rock, but it needs to be said. The singer shakes his head at nothing, wishing he were with Pete right now so he could hug him. "Don't ever doubt that. That song, I mean, it's great, but it's just a song. It's not a confessional. I don't think you're my best friend--I _know_ you are. You will always be, and I will _always_ need you, okay? So stop with these 'Patrick-doesn't-love-me-anymore-cuz-he-sorta-likes-himself-now' thoughts. They're just not true."

There's silence on the other end of the line, broken up periodically by hitched breathing and badly-muffled sniffs. When it lasts for longer than ten seconds, as per usual, Patrick starts to sing.

He hasn't warmed up and his voice is still rough with sleep, but the first verse of "The Kids Aren't Alright" is still unmistakable. He sings the whole song through, keeping time by tapping the bedspread under his fingers. Since he can hear Pete falling slowly asleep, he lowers his voice as he gets to the last chorus, and on impulse, he changes the words:

_"And in the end_

_I'd do it all again_

_'Cuz I know you're my best friend_

_And I promise you you'll be alright_

_We'll be alright_

_And I'm yours_

_You're the one I waited for_

_I couldn't ask for nothing more_

_'Cuz Pete, you make me alright,_

_So you'll be alright."_

The hotel room goes quiet as Patrick softly croons the last few notes, and Pete is breathing deeply and evenly on the other end of the phone. Patrick smiles to himself and listens, feeling an old familiar pang of humility and awe at the power of his voice to soothe people like this. It's pretty much his super power--Pete's actually called it that once or twice. He slips back down onto his mattress, head on his pillow.

"Goodnight, Pete," he murmurs, not expecting a response.

He moves to take the phone away from his ear and hang up, but before he can he hears the faintest of declarations crackling over miles of electric waves and wires: "I love you."

A sharply inhaled breath and a quick, faint blush that Patrick chalks up to tiredness results from this innocent sentiment. Still, because it would be malicious not to, Patrick grins broadly at the ceiling above himself and whispers into the phone, his heart thumping out a frenzied, excited beat, "I love you more."

Pete's already asleep by the time those words leave Patrick's lips. No matter, the younger man thinks--he can always repeat them tomorrow.

And the day after that.

He falls asleep and, not for the first time, Pete is his dream.

###


End file.
